Bidding you farewell, the house grandfather built

In a way, I bid adieu to our ancestral house where I was born and raised, the day I got married. But never in the true sense, for me it was always my one constant whose existence I took for granted, my happy place for the past 45 years, the house my grandfather built.

The Amrapali mango tree at the corner of the garden stood proud if not tall, bearing witness to the many grandchildren of the house learning to climb its branches and then spending hours perched up chatting the day away. Close to its roots lies buried our faithful cocker spaniel Liza, as if still guarding the gates and looking out for a tasty treat. As our family shifts residence for good, I bid farewell to the sweet fruits you bore and am sure Liza will give you company and forever be on guard.

Ours was a corner house with a gate on both sides of the bend. We had a quirky ritual as kids, we’d say ‘bye’ at the first gate then charge through the house to reach the other side and wave to the departing car, as if by some way prolonging the send-off. When my father drove out of our family residence for the last time, the sadness was evident in his gait and face as he looked back at the house his father built, as he turned the corner of the house, my sister and me along with our four children lined up at the second gate waving cheerfully, keeping our family tradition going, and the old-timer’s face lit up with a beaming smile.

My parent’s family is a predominantly fauji family, which was evident as one stepped into the formal drawing room. The room was dominated with mementoes representing the various stations my father and grandfather served at. As a child, I found this boring and mundane compared to the curios I saw at friend’s places, telling tales of travels to foreign lands. As we helped our parents set up their new residence, the same army mementoes were put up, but this time I looked upon them with a sense of pride, I finally understood the bravery, valour, history and honour they symbolised. They also carried with them a part of the home we had left behind and helped the new abode feel familiar and welcoming.

One very special place was the terrace of the house, its brick floor and a cement chimney in the centre, to this day I don’t know where that chimney led to because we never had a working fireplace. But for me that chimney was my perch and the terrace offered a great view of the surrounding area and neighbouring houses. I could spend hours in winter reading comics, interspersed with periods of people-watching from my post. The one chore I really looked forward to was putting out the clothes to dry on the terrace, this allowed me ample time to sit unobserved on the parapet and watch all the activity happening down in the lane.

Leaving a home where, I grew up, my children spent a large part of their childhood, my sister got married and both my paternal grandparents passed on from, was painful like a physical wound for the longest time. The white brick structure with your old school window grills, the spacious lawns that hold wonderful happy memories, a lump still forms in my throat when I think of you, but I have finally found the calm and strength to bid you farewell, the house my grandfather built.

OURS WAS A CORNER HOUSE WITH A GATE ON BOTH SIDES OF THE BEND. WE HAD A QUIRKY RITUAL AS KIDS, WE’D SAY ‘BYE’ AT THE FIRST GATE THEN MOVE TO THE OTHER SIDE AND WAVE TO THE DEPARTING CAR